


A Soother's Touch

by squirenonny



Category: Cosmere - Brandon Sanderson, Mistborn - Brandon Sanderson
Genre: 31 Days of Sadfic, AU, CFSWF, Gen, minor WoA spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-10 01:45:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4372388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squirenonny/pseuds/squirenonny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For years Lord Ladrian has worked toward revolution. He has few allies and few resources, but he will persevere as long as it takes. Change will come, eventually.</p><p>Not everyone is as patient.</p><p>Written for CFSWF 2015.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Soother's Touch

Most nights, Lord Ladrian worked late.

He was, technically speaking, the head of his house, as his father had stepped down some years ago, after Ladrian’s mother had suffered an…accident. An accident that left her strangled in her own bed.

In practice, Ladrian was little more than a puppet for his father. He had no allies of his own, no friends with any real power. All of Luthadel knew that Ladrian was soft. That he didn’t visit the brothels or beat his skaa—not as unusual as the gossips made it sound, but few people bragged about such things.

Ladrian’s father had thought such a rumor would shame his son. Skaa-lover. Most nobles took it as an insult.

Ladrian wore the title proudly. Things were changing in Luthadel. Slowly, and with great resistance from the rest of the nobility, changing in the dead of night and in coded letters. Ladrian’s father fought it every step of the way, but his Allomancy no longer worked on Ladrian. He was an old man clinging to the past.

One way or another, Ladrian would break his father’s hold on the house fortunes, and then his plans would really take off.

For now, Ladrian needed more allies. Not the High Nobility. Not the people currently in power. They had no reason to press for change and every reason to maintain the status quo. But the country nobles? The future lords and the second sons?

Those, Ladrian collected. Friends, for a coming rebellion.

He’d heard rumors recently, rumors supported by a Tineye Ladrian had hired behind his father’s back. Elend Venture—heir to House Venture, flaunter of courtly manners, a walking scandal—had formed his own little society. Just a game, for now, but perhaps, with the right connections and some judicious Soothing… Perhaps Ladrian’s network might one day reach even to the atium reserves of House Venture.

Ladrian would have to move slowly. Approach Elend too quickly and the boy would spook. Approach him publicly, and Ladrian’s father might spot his ploy.

No, Ladrian had to get clever. A Soother’s touch. Perhaps if he—

A sound outside his window. Ladrian’s pen scratched across the page, tearing a long, thin, line. Ladrian forced himself to breathe deeply, clutching the edge of his desk to still the shaking of his hands. This was not his father’s doing. He wasn’t subtle enough for spies.

Probably a Coinshot patrolling the grounds.

The window exploded inward, metal frame slamming against the far wall and leaving a trail of glass shards in its wake.

Ladrian lurched upright, flaring brass. Soothing anger, soothing greed, soothing away everything but guilt and fear and shame. No time for subtlety now; he had to buy himself enough time for his guards to…

His guards.

His guards should have stopped any intruders outside. The guards outside his study should have already entered in. Ladrian shouted, and still the door remained closed.

A shadow entered through the window, mistcloak swirling around him. Ladrian’s knees went weak. A Mistborn. Lord Ruler, a Mistborn had come for him.

The man was tall, with sharp eyes and blond hair. Countless scars crisscrossed his arms.

“The Survivor of Hathsin,” Ladrian breathed.

The Survivor smiled. A tight, cold smile as ominous as the mists pooling around his feet.

“You’ve come to kill me?” Ladrian glanced toward the door. A spray of coins shot past his nose and embedded in the wall behind him.

“You can run,” said the Survivor. He managed to sound conversational, even as he took a step forward, grinding broken glass beneath his foot. A glass dagger appeared in his hand. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Ladrian forced himself to swallow the fear rising up to choke him. Soothing wouldn’t work on this man. The guards weren’t responding—dead, probably, but others would come. He just had to keep talking, buy more time. “Why kill me? I haven’t—I’m not—My father won’t take this lying down.”

The Survivor’s smile widened. “That’s what I’m counting on.”

Ladrian saw the flash of coins. The Survivor, moving with inhuman speed. Pain, in his chest, his sides. A glass blade, already red with blood.

Then, nothing.


End file.
